


The Bench

by DameDitta



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Child Abandonment, Crime Scenes, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Fluid Sexuality, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Instability, No Smut, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Transphobia, Triggers, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameDitta/pseuds/DameDitta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the homeless boy struggling to survive, to the talented girl who nobody wants. The gay teen bullied due to ignorance of others and the dapper boy in direct fire of his father’s rage. From the transgender young woman who the town deems confused and the juvenile criminal with the heart of gold to the girl who sells herself in hopes to feel loved.</p><p>This story tells the tale of seven very different teenagers leading seven separate lives and the bench that links them all together in their quest to fulfill a mutual dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bench

**Author's Note:**

> Word of warning - This story isn't all sunshine and rainbows. I take these characters down very dark paths which might unsettle some people.  
> I repeat this is a Dark fic with a happy ending, but struggle will ensue.

 

There is a bench in Lima, Ohio that legend calls the Epiphany Seat.

 

To look at, the oak wooden panels structured on black chrome legs convinced the rare tourist of its ordinariness. At a length that could seat three fully grown men comfortably and an intimate view of Lima’s only lake, a civilian who wasn’t a resident in the small town, would see it as only a common bench with its sole purpose to provide respite whilst strolling by the water.

 

But for the residents of Lima, the bench had played its part in almost everyone’s lives at some point over the last 50 years. For this mere wooden seating device was called the Epiphany Seat for a reason. Maybe it was the unusual comfortableness that the hard looking oak provided, perhaps it was the up close view of the blissful lake or possibly it was the aroma of the flowers that scented the air from the park in which it sat that relaxed the town’s people, whatever the reason, when people sat on the bench, they began to think.

 

The thoughts could vary from the innocent and boring to the dark and sinister as their body would mould into the woodwork and there was nothing to distract a person from going deeper and deeper into their minds. No matter what problems drenched their lives, upon leaving the piece of furniture, a goal would be set on defeating the problem, a path drawn out to follow or an answer was conjured to their underline questions. For 50 years, Lima’s people had all reported that at some point, whilst residing in the park, looking over the lake, they had an epiphany.

 

In the early 1960’s, a bench seemed to appear out of nowhere and although its appearance caused some town folk’s brows to raise in slight intrigue, something as ordinary and plain as a bench overlooking the lake was quickly forgotten about. It was a young boy, no older than 14 who was the first and most famous reporting of the Epiphany Seat. For his encounters with the object were forever more written into the history of the small town in Ohio.

 

Victor Wilson grew up in Lima Heights, a place notorious for its high level of nefarious activity. It became apparent very early on that he was a fish out of water in the area. Unlike his neighbours, Victor had motivation and an ambitious mind and wanted to put it to good use. He always wanted to feel safe where he lived and the only way he saw that possible was to make the change himself. So one night, when young Victor was strolling through the park after his first day of high school, he came across the lake and by doing so, the bench. The lake was a beautiful sight, with the full moon reflecting off its waters and so Victor took the time out to appreciate it by sitting on the bench.

 

After a busy day of getting lost between classes and dodging pranks from the older students, Victor Wilson basked in the silence of his own company and as the chirps of the crickets sang, he let himself think things over. At school that day, he had become rather friendly to several other freshmen but once everyone was told to meet and greet each other with information on themselves, everyone backed away when little Victor Wilson begrudgingly revealed that he was from Lima Heights. Students and teachers alike instantly tarred him with the brush that painted drug dealers, prostitutes and other criminals and throughout the rest of the day, Victor’s brilliant mind quickly noticed that he was treated lesser than his classmates. No one would bother trying to educate a boy from the Heights, for it would be time wasted and money poorly spent, for everyone knew that the residents of the criminal area usually ended up in prison.

 

But Victor wanted the change their opinions and to do so, he needed to address the main root of the situation; his area. He could either move away, which lack of funds and no desire to do so by his parents made impossible, or he could work hard to find a solution from within. That night Victor found his dream. He would endure high school and college and become a cop, patrolling his neighbourhood and stopping crime before it began.

 

So Victor left the bench and did just that, he studied hard and maintained the perfect grades without his teachers help and when he graduated at the top of his class, Victor revisited the bench while deciding on what college to attend. After an hour of deep thinking while looking out at the ducks floating on the lake, he decided to leave the state temporarily to follow his dream. His dream took him to New York City where he studied hard and began working part time with the NYPD. After 5 years away from the Heights, Victor returned as a fully fledged cop and worked closely with his policing partner, Mary Holmes, in tackling the ever growing problems in Lima Heights. After 10 years, Victor Wilson was a respected name throughout all of Ohio and crime ratings had dropped over 70% when he was advised the run for Mayor of his town. Once again, when at a crossroads, Victor paid another visit to the bench. 2 years later, the crowds cheered as Major Wilson of Lima, Ohio was coroneted.

 

Mary Holmes came across the bench whilst trying the calm her mind and tears over losing her partner in the force and as she took her seat, she wandered why she was so saddened. She lay in her uniform for almost 3 hours as her brain unscrambled itself and told her she was in love with the man and as she got off the bench, she had decided to tell him so.

 

Mary Wilson visited the bench again after 5 years of marriage to the mayor in tears over her fast growing feeling over the mansion’s garden, Rodriguez. She sat and asked for a sign on what to do and how to choose between her husband and her secret lover who’s child she was carrying. Rubbing her belly and calming her nerves, Mary stood from the bench with a decision made and left the park to live her life.

 

Victor Holmes paid his old thinking spot a visit after losing his position as mayor and husband with a bottle of whiskey in his hand and a heart full of rage. The new mayor had no desire to keep an eye on the Heights, assuming the problem had fixed itself and all of Victor’s hard work was unravelling before his very eyes. His pregnant wife had ran away with the real father of her child in the middle of the night, leaving Victor lonely, broken and drunk. He had sat on the bench from dusk to dawn one final time before going home and putting a bullet into his brain.

 

Since the bench had played a massive part in the rise and fall of the late Victor Wilson, many people in the town branded the ordinary furniture in the park as the Epiphany Seat and soon became a place where the residents would visit for some much needed thinking time. Laura Andrews sat down to think of which house she should buy after a promotion at work. Shelby Cocaron sat in a trance on the wood for hours as she contemplated hiring out her womb for money from two gay men. Elizabeth Smith watched over the lake as she pondered the idea of allowing the local mechanic, Burt Hummel to take her on a date. The bench played home to Norah Puckerman after her husband left her as the thought of aborting her little girl flickered through her head. People from all across town would come to the bench in their time of inspiration searching and leaving with a plan, a path, a dream.

 

As the residents grew older, a new generation flocked in in the form of their children, nieces and nephews and with the new crowd came a new role for the Epiphany Seat. The new occurrence started a couple of years ago when Noah Puckerman, a sixteen year old trouble maker decided the try out the oracle inducing furniture. However, half way through his deep thinking he was interrupted by a drunken girl, no older than himself as she did what no other had done before; she sat on the bench that was occupied by another.

 

For the first time since Victor Wilson’s story, two people sat on the bench and instead of silently pondering over life’s roads, Noah Puckerman and the drunk girl, Santana Lopez, vocalised their problems with each other, both of whom promised not the judge and offered advice in return. In the new age, the internet quickly spread the story of the bench’s new use and all the younger folk in Lima now saw the seat as a place not only to go for thinking, but a place for sharing your troubles with a stranger, where no judgement was passed and only guidance was given.

 

Every week or so, the bench occupied two confused souls who told their seating buddy everything other than their name. Alias’ where used to protect identities and a mutual respect for the bench had the residents of Lima never breaching the secrecy. Of course, remaining anonymous in a small town like Lima was impossible and most folk knew each other, but in those minutes together, sitting, speaking and connecting, no judgement was passed. The bench was now a place to seek refuge and guidance from a stranger before walking off back to their own separate lives.

 

The bench sometimes only ever played host to a person once in their lives or maybe a couple times, but there were kids, teens and adults alike who had become frequent visitors of the park to ponder the difficult choices in life.

 

From the homeless boy struggling to survive, to the talented girl who nobody wants. The gay teen bullied due to ignorance of others and the dapper boy in direct fire of his father’s rage. From the transgender young woman who the town deems confused and the juvenile criminal with the heart of gold to the girl who sells herself in hopes to feel loved.

 

This story tells the tale of seven very different teenagers leading seven separate lives and the bench that links them all together in their quest to fulfil a mutual dream.


	2. Meet the Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing that gets me down is being young in this town, and there’s no future in it.
> 
> I don’t give a damn about life after death, but I got to get some proof that there’s life after birth.
> 
> I want it bad and I want it now, we were born going faster than the limits allow.
> 
> Tire Tracks and Broken Hearts, that’s all we’re leaving behind, doesn’t matter where we’re going, only matter’s what we’re going to find.
> 
> \- Cast of Whistle Down the Wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings involve mentions of self harm, non-con, violence.... all the nasty stuff really.  
> As I've mentioned before, this fic is not a light, happy fic.

__

 

** Wade Adams: **

 

When I’m on stage it’s the only time I feel safe and happy. Maybe it is the raised platform that effectively separates me from everyone else that eases my fears, maybe it’s because people become so compelled by my powerful voice that it clouds their judgement, but I think the reason is because I finally get to be the true me.

 

The Dayton club -in which I’m currently singing in- is seedy and full of lonely, desperate men, young and old, looking for a sleazy hookup. This isn’t my ideal place to perform, but at least nobody knows me here and that helps a bit with my insecurities. It sucks that I have to travel this far out from Lima just to sing on a stage to a crowd, but Lima refuses to let me dress like me if in a situation that demands attention be on me. Maybe they were confused or maybe they were full of hate over my life choices that they tried snatch away my limelight as punishment. Perhaps they were just protecting me from directly putting me in the firing line of the ignorant, but somehow, I doubt that last one very much. I’ve heard the hushed whispers, seen the dirty looks, the sheltering of their children’s eyes if I dare step out my house as the true me. At least here, in Dayton, nobody knows the child my home town demanded I be. Here I am ‘Unique Adams, the powerful diva from a few towns over’ and that was all I ever wanted. Although it isn’t due to their open mind attitude, hell no, these patrons I perform to have no idea. I know it’s built on a lie, an avoidance of truth, but here I feel like I belong. Well, more so than in Lima.

 

“A round of applause for the beautiful Miss Unique Adams” the club owner -and the only person in the establishment who knows the truth about me- calls out over a separate microphone once my set is complete.

 

I curtsy graciously at my adoring crowd and even blow kisses while caught up in the euphoria. In hind sight, this was probably a bad move on my behalf as one of my invisible kisses is accidentally directed straight at somebody.

 

Through the grapevine, I’ve heard that the man who received my kiss, and I say man loosely for he was no older than me, is called Ryder. Unlike the others in the bar, Ryder never seems to be on the hunt for drunken girls, instead he is usually dragged along by his father and his buddies. Roz Washington, the club owner told me on several occasions that Ryder would sit in the corner sulking until I came on stage to perform. Then he would sit up straight, eyes cemented on me with a dreamy look on his face. I’ve never seen the look personally, the stage lighting makes it difficult to see my crowd, but I have no reason to doubt Roz, she has truly been a good friend to me this past year.

 

And now I have just blown him a kiss and if the observations are accurate, I have inexplicably just given him false hope. Ryder, with warm brown eyes and a sandy brunette old school Bieber style haircut, is as beautiful as they come in my opinion and if I were been anyone but me, I would jump at a chance of interaction. But of course I am me, and I decide to flee.

 

“Unique?” the voice comes from behind me as I try run from the stage to the back room. I’ve never heard the voice before but know before turning around who it is.

 

I’m right.

 

“Hello Poser.” I say in response with a slight sassy tone to my voice. Maybe if I scare him away with my pretend personality, I won’t be so broken when I scare him away for other reasons beyond my control.

 

He shuffles on the spot and wipes his hands over his worn out jeans, presumably trying the rid himself on the sweat that gather through nerves. I can’t blame him, I’m nervous too and subtly wipe my clammy hands over my golden dress in hopes it looks like I’m just straightening the garment out.

 

“You were incredible tonight.” he says in a sort of breathy voice. “Every night actually.”

 

The butterflies in my stomach and the blush I feel heating my cheeks prove how much I like the boy in front of me. This is why it is so heartbreaking for me to this. But to protect myself, I have to.

 

“Not interest.” I say coldly before turning away to make a dash for the changing rooms. Ryder is persistant or brave, I’ll give him that, as he grabs my wrist to stop me running.

 

“Please.” he says desperately. “Just a coffee or something. I really want to get to know you.” he still has hold of my wrist as if he thinks I would sprint if he lets go. In all fairness, he’s probably right.

 

“I’m transgender.” I blurt out. Best get this over and done with before I get crushed by the inevitable rejection. Besides, this young man seemed like a nice boy and I don’t feel right lying to him. I wait patiently for the rejection or the insult to come. I know he won’t attack me for misleading him as out of the corner of my eye, I see Roz loitering close by.

 

“I don’t understand.” he comments in a confused tone. “What does that mean?”

 

“It means I was born a man.” I tell him rudely and luckily I do, because my harsh attitude masks the hurt I feel when he snatches his hand from my wrist at the sentence.

 

“Are you serious?” he asks in a shaky voice as he combs a trembling hand through his adorable hair. Instead of crying like I feel like doing, I simply raise a disinterest brow to him before walking away. He doesn’t object this time.

 

I look in the mirror of the dressing room in a sort of trance. I go through my usual ritual of removing myself from my appearance on auto pilot. As I pull off my jet black wig, I remember Ryder’s adoring face as he received my kiss. As I shuffle out my dress and replace it with jeans and a polo shirt, I remember his eagerness to take me out, his pleading. As I take of my armor that is my makeup, I visualize his face when I told me who I am. If I had watched the interaction between two people that wasn’t me, his paling face and retreating behavior may have made me laugh. Instead, it makes me feel hallow. I don’t cry though, it’s not like he was the first boy to like me before the ultimate discovery. I’m used to it now.

 

Back in the costume of my boy self, -for this is the costume and the wig and the heels are my real clothes-, I look at myself one more time in the full length mirror to make sure I meet my parents requirements.

 

“We love you for whoever you are, Wade” they had said, whether it be refusal or general forgetfulness to use that name, I don’t know. “But make sure you come back into town in normal clothes.” what was probably meant as a supportive gesture just proved how much my parents didn’t understand no matter how much they promised they did. The clothes I’m wearing now, the jeans and shirt, aren’t normal clothes to me. I feel like I am in drag, dressed like this. And I will have to remain dressed in such a horrible way until Unique is free to let her beautiful hair down once more.

 

I dream of escaping this hell.

 

 

** Blaine Anderson: **

 

I know it’s going to be a physical one as soon as the shouts overpower my guitar strings from two levels away. This is a common occurrence in my house ever since the recession hit us hard. My father is still stinking rich but his problem is that he is greedy. Greedy people are not nice people; they can be dangerous in their sociopath ways to get what they want. When my father doesn’t get his own way, he gets violent and when he gets violent, I’m the punching bag. Obviously this isn’t an ideal situation, but I prefer taking the beating than watching my mother take them. I might be short, but I’m firm and solid and have become somewhat immune to my dad’s blows. I actually think he enjoys hitting me these days. Before I came out as gay, he used to apologize after his fist struck my face. Now, I only get a sneer. But maybe that’s because I no longer curl up in a ball and cry, now I take it like a man and he hates it.

 

So do I, but I have no choice.

 

It’s like my dad is taunting me because as I strum harder on my guitar his voice gets louder, like he’s trying to challenge me from the other side of the house. He does this often, tries to assert his dominance, prove to himself that he is all man, a highly successful man in charge of the world. I call it small-penis syndrome. Surely he is trying to overcompensate for something. Anyway, he challenges me often, like he is doing now, trying to win the battle of sound over my guitar, but I won’t satisfy him with a battle unless summoned properly. I may be his punch bag, but I am not owned by him.

 

“Blaine Devon Anderson!”

 

There’s the correct words. When my name is called, I know ignoring it results in bad news for both me and my mother. To ignore my name being called, in my father’s eyes, is the most disrespectful thing I can do. And to a man who is suffering from small-penis syndrome, being disrespected by a teenager results in punishment.

 

I put my guitar down, which ironically is a gift from my father, and walk out of my room and make my way down the marble staircase. I pass our maid, Cho, on the way and the Asian helper gives me a sad smile. She’s been around long enough to know the routine too. I can’t help but feel sorrier for her than I do for myself. At least I can understand the venom my father’s spews, Cho’s English is broken at best and to her it must just sound like ferocious roaring.

 

“There you are.” My father greets with a genuine smile, arms open wide in greeting as I step into the parlor of our unnecessarily huge house. I glance at my mother who looks haggard and defeated. “Sonny boy, I have a favor to ask of you.”

 

My father suffers from bipolar disorder meaning his moods change sporadically and drastically without warning. Usually, when he’s had his medication, the transition from one emotion to the next is a lot smoother, but my father rarely takes them because he thinks it makes him less of a man. This small-penis thing really controls his life. Luckily it’s not generic. I’m happy with what I’m packing and I don’t need to act like a caveman to prove my masculinity. Sometimes I think my father knows this and is envious and that’s why I’m his prime target. But mostly I think it’s because he knows I won’t hit him back. He may be a violent, greedy, selfish man, but he is still my father.

 

“Yes, sir?” I ask with all the politeness my mother has raised me with. I’ll remain dignified even if I am to get struck for no apparent reason, but only because my mother is present. It’s hard enough seeing her youngest son get hit, it would be crippling if I lost myself and dignity because of it. After every beating I receive, my mother nurses my wounds in secret. She whispers false promises of escape that go forgotten the next morning. I’m unsure whether it’s love or fear that keeps her here, either way, it’s incredibly unhealthy.

 

“You are to marry Mr. Cohen-Chang’s daughter.” my father commands in a military tone.

 

“I’m only 16 and very, very gay.” I remind him as politely as I can, although I can’t hide the rebellious glint in my eye which my father picks up on.

 

It’s not like I try and egg him on to strike me, but since I know it’s coming, I might as well deserve it. My father hates that I’m gay. I don’t think he hates gay’s in general, -he seems to sigh sadly when that Kurt Hummel gets bullied for being homosexual-, he just doesn’t want his son to be one. He often blabbers on about needing an heir to the Anderson Empire. He either genuinely forgets or refuses to acknowledge that my older brother Cooper has a set of twins of his own. Cooper and my father hate each other, mainly because Cooper proved his masculinity by being a great husband and father, succeeding where my father fails miserably. Cooper’s been written off and disowned, and I’m consumed by jealousy because of it.

 

“This is not up for discussion.” My father says sternly, piercing me with a dark stare. I look back at him with an almost amused expression on my face, so subtle that my mother has no idea, but my father, who’s looking for it, sees it immediately. “Tina’s family has a lot of money Son, it would be wise to marry into such money.” he informs me as if we are struggling or something.

 

I’m not marrying a random woman, it’s as simple as that. Now there are two ways of delivering this not so shocking news to my father. I can politely decline the offer, resulting in a punch to my left cheek or I can beg him too rethink, which will result in my right cheek being struck. Either way, I know I’m about to get a blow, so I go for option three.

 

“Why don’t you marry her then?” I ask flatly.

 

The result of my words are instant. My mother gasps and covers her mouth with a dainty hand. My father’s face turns a comical shade of purple and before I know it, I’m on my ass, blood pouring from my nose. I bring my hand up to my face and breath a sigh of relief that it’s not broken, just bloodied, and look up at my father’s angry face. Back in the day, his face would have turned to shock by now, but that was a long time ago, and the face he is currently sporting is one that tells me he is nowhere near done.

 

He lifts his leg and crashes his size 10’s into my chest, making me fall completely onto my back. This is routine and I know his next move, so I instinctively tense my stomach just in time for the swift kicks to my abdomen. The blows no longer hurt like they used to, but my mother’s sobs as she watches her baby get beaten stabs me every time. I know she hates this and wishes she could defend me, but the reality is, she is pathetic and weak. But I love my mother, so I’ll let her nurse my injuries her husband is causing, because this is just another day in the life of Blaine Anderson.

 

I dream of escaping this hell.

 

 

 

** Noah Puckerman: **

 

Eating isn’t a crime. Sleeping in a warm bed isn’t a crime. Theft in order to maintain such lifestyle however, apparently is. Which is why my ass is fucking freezing from sitting on a cold cement bed with nothing more than a paper thin sheet for warmth.

 

I’m used to it now though, and if the bed were to have an actual mattress on it, there would probably be a permanent grove of my body in it. I’m a regular visitor to this particularly cell and so is my cellmate, a gruff, bearded, menacing looking man. We are all regulars here in Lima Heights police station.

 

I hate the menacing man sitting opposite me. In a lot of ways, he’s the reason I’m here, not that he knows it of course. His name is Charlie and ironically he sells heroin and his favorite customer is Norah Puckerman, my mother. Charlie doesn’t know my mother’s last name so he has no idea who I am to her; to him I’m just some silly little kid causing trouble around the estate. But I only cause trouble because of him.

 

I’m a thief; I’ll hold my hands up to that straight away. I’m not proud, but I own it. I’ve swiped wallets from pockets, items from homes, watches from wrists, stereos from cars, the lot. It’s not uncommon to do in my area. Lima Heights is where the useless are born to die. But what sets me apart from other criminals, is the reason why I do this stuff, and in that, I keep my humanity.

 

“Noah Puckerman, follow me.” one of the police officers say, opening the metal bar barrier for me to escape. Even though it’s hardly an escape for I know I will be back here soon enough. Yet I know I‘m free tonight, because I know this officer. This officer is my second cousin Louie Schmitt.

 

Nobody in the precinct knows we are related, and that’s the way we like it, so I keep my head down as he leads me into a secluded room. I’m still handcuffed due to the officer who arrested me, yet I don’t know why. I didn’t put up a fight or anything, I never do. I accept the shit that is thrown my way.

 

“Listen, Noah.” Louie practically growls to me once we are alone. “I’m getting fucking fed up with your shit. There’s only so many times your paperwork can ’accidentally’ go missing before you - _we_ get busted.”

 

“Dude, chillax, I’ll try not to get caught next time.” I huff as I take a seat on one of the stupid blue plastic chairs offered to me. They’re highly uncomfortable, but I suspect they are built that way on purpose. Louie’s chair seems plush and comfortable.

 

“How about you just stop stealing?” Louie suggests and I snort at the ridiculous idea. There’s a reason Louie lets me off all the time and it’s not just because we are family.

 

My mother gave birth to two children, an awesome sex stud boy, that’s me, and an annoying little brat, that’ll be my baby sister Sarah. I say ‘gave birth to’ instead of raised because my mother is incapable of raising even her arm in her current heroin addiction. We have no gas, electric, running water, clean clothes or food because all our funds go into a syringe. That’s where my job comes in.

 

I tried getting a proper job, but my location works against me. Nobody wants to hire a youth from the Heights. I started small, stealing the books from the library that my sister needed for school or swiping some meat from the supermarket for a meal that evening. Then Ma started getting red letters with final warning for rent and shit, things that I couldn’t steal from shops. Clothes, books, shoes and food weren’t enough after a while and actual cash had to come in. I tried stealing more clothes from high end shops in Lima mall to sell at a heavily discounted price, but that only got me so far.

 

 It was when April Rhodes, the town drunk, came to me to buy some shit when things changed. She put her bag down on the table next to me as she rummaged through my goods. She was sort of a black widow of the town, married into money and her husbands just mysteriously died all the time. Her bag was designer and open and in a desperate attempt to save my home, I peeked inside. It all went downhill from there. I took $560 dollars from her that day without her buying a single thing. That bought another month of shelter over me and my little sister’s head.

 

 And it went on like that. If my sister wanted a new bike or I wanted a new video game to fit in with my mates, I would take something that wasn’t mine. If Sarah began losing weight and crying through the night that she was hungry, I would take whatever I could find. Once in a while I would get caught when I got over confident or sloppy, landing me in my current predicament. But refusing to think of the alternative, a couple of hours in the cell here and there is a small price to pay.

 

“Just go home, Noah.” Louie sighs, throwing his pen onto the table and slouching back into his comfortably looking seat. I give him a pointed look which he doesn’t get, so instead I wave my contained hands at him. “Oh!” he says dumbly, rattling around his large key chain to find the right apparatus to remove my cuffs.

 

“See you soon, LouLou.” I tease once I’m free to go. He rolls his eyes at me, knowing that the statement holds more truth than he is willing to accept. And unless I win the lottery or something, our next meeting is inevitable.

 

I leave the police station with a smug look on my face, in which the other police officers sneer at me for, before making my way by foot back to my ratty little apartment complex. I have a beaten up truck, but it’s out of gas and I haven’t got any money to top her up thanks to getting busted today. In order to get myself and Sarah to school tomorrow, I’m going to need cash.

 

Without a second thought, I ‘accidentally’ bump into a naïve looking woman, who looks way too posh for these parts, and easily swipe her purse without her noticing. Someone does notice though, dark sunken dead eyes watch me as I stroll down the street. The eyes belong to a teenage girl around my age, waiting on the street corner for her next appointment. Her name to me as well as her clients is Snix, but to everyone else, it’s Santana Lopez. We look at each other from across the street. We know each other’s secrets, fears and dreams, yet we walk past each other like we are complete strangers.

 

I dream of escaping this hell.

 

 

 

** Santana Lopez: **

 

I scrub my knuckles hard to remove as much blood as possible. It happened again, in fact, it’s happening often now and every time I still cry. I don’t know why tears are falling down my cheeks, why my throat is impossibly tight and why my nose has begun to run. I should be used to this by now and be numb to such emotion. After all, they deserve it. But it seems my conscious feeds on guilt, and it’s a glutton.

 

I don’t even know the woman who’s face I just smashed in. Just some stuck up privilege bitch with a bad attitude. I know I’ve built up a certain kind of reputation and people are bound to call me out on it, but every time they do, I snap. And the result is also the same. Me in my bathroom, tear stained, scrubbing my knuckles of blood that drained away long before I stop.

 

My father always told me, “Protect your person, Protect your heart Santana Lopez.”

 

And I might not have a lot to protect as I lost my dignity and self respect along the way, but I do have my Papi’s reputation to respect. Not that he has a very good one, seeing as he’s locked up for committing murder. But my father is my hero and when some stuck up middle class bitch walks past me in the street and calls me a slut, I’m going to protect my person and smash the skank’s face in. Even if she is right in her comment.

 

Because as I tidy up my appearance, wipe away my tears and smooth down my ruby red zip up dress, it’s all because tonight I will please a man. A stranger. For cash.

 

“I’m going out.” I call out to the broken shell that was once my mama.

 

A woman who used to be so full of life, devoted to her family now sits in a dust gathered armchair in our living room, staring at a blank wall like she does everyday. My mama is broken because her true love, her family, is broken as well. And it’s all my fault.

 

From the age of seven until I was fourteen, I was molested by my Uncle Carlos Suez. I don’t even remember how it began, how my mama’s older brother turned from an angel to a devil. I’ve heard whispers that I clung to him too much, provoked him, but even I know this isn’t true. How could a seven year old little girl seduce a fully grown man? The idea is absurd and sickening.

 

Of course, at the time, I knew no different and had promised Uncle Carlos to keep everything a secret, for if I didn’t, the state would send me away. So I let his hands roam, then his mouth until he finally spoiled me completely. It happened about once a month for seven years and I let it happen. Even when I reached 12 and became aware how wrong it was, I remained silent. Right towards the end actually, I sought him out twice. This is why whispers began about me seducing him from the beginning. But I didn’t. He found me, groomed me, nurtured me and loved me and in the end, I let him. I knew it was wrong, taboo, forbidden and illegal, but I truly believed Uncle Carlos loved me and I enjoyed being loved so I let him do what he wanted to me to prove it.

 

Obviously my Papi didn’t feel the same way that day when he walked in on us. I don’t really remember much of that night, even though it was only four years ago. I remember me crying and confessing everything. I remember Uncle Carlos’ hands around my throat. I remember blood splattering my tear stained face. I remember the ambulance and cops arriving. I remember a body bag and a stretcher to carry out my uncle’s corpse and handcuffs, guns and officers surrounding my Papi.

 

I never saw my Papi after that night and I never saw Uncle Carlos either. Two men that loved me in completely different ways were gone. Taken from me within the hour. I was alone. My mama had a nervous breakdown which she has never recovered from and I find myself standing on street corners like I am right now, searching and wanting for someone to love me again. Maybe one of these men that pick me up will love me like my uncle did. Their actions say they do but after the hour is up, I’m left alone again for another night, with nothing but a handful of bills that sum up my worth.

 

But now, as I wait, in the cold, hopelessly for the next man to drive up, I no longer get that excited, anxious feeling of anticipation. Because I finally realize that the faceless stranger wont love me the way his actions show. I know I’m nothing more than a warm, moist hole for them to manhandle for a while. I’ve become numb to it. I don’t feel dirty, although people say I should, because I was spoilt at the tender age of seven and to me, this is normal. There is no emotion there on either side and I worry that I’ll never feel again. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be loved, and in that, I miss Uncle Carlos. And then I should feel ashamed for thinking that, but I can’t. I can’t feel anything.

 

I watch Puck, Lima Heights purse snatcher walk past me and not long after that, the homeless teenage boy that lives under the bridge and it reminds me that I’m not alone in this fucked up town. I don’t deserve special treatment above these people just because I’m a victim of abuse. We are all victims of something or another and we need to learn to deal with it, because no-one gives a shit about us.

 

No-one.

 

Not the police.

 

Not my mama.

 

And not the overweight, balding, middle age man who has just pulled up in front of me, licking his lips and leering at me like I’m fresh meat. But of course, I am to him. Nothing more than a filthy slut who will rock his world in an attempt to feel something again, because when you feel, you heal.

 

I wink, because I know they like that. Bite my bottom lip nervously as if to pretend to be innocent, because they like that too and I step into his car, which smells strongly of onion, and he drives us off. And for the next hour or so, I wait patiently for the feeling of love to surround me. But of course, it never does.

 

I dream of escaping this hell.

 

 

 

 

** Rachel Berry: **

 

I always believed that being a part of something special made me special and the fact is that I _am_ special and yet no one seems to care. Especially nobody in this town. Lima is a place where gays are hated, gossip spreads like wildfire and the town folk have more respect for a stupid bench than they do a person. So no, Lima isn’t special, it’s a dull backwards town that sucks the life and ambition out of a person until they are nothing but robots. Living on autopilot, happy with their substandard life and never leaving. Demeaning those who dream bigger and making them feel tiny, minuscule. That is what this town does to me. They don’t want me because of my ambition yet they don’t want me gone because the minute I escape the shackles of Lima, Ohio, I’ve made it.

 

This town is the reason for the tightness in my chest.

 

Lima has no theatres or any outlet for a person with creativity. It’s just buildings and shops and a restaurant or two. One of the restaurant’s, Breadstix, has just fired me from dishwashing duty. I’m not entirely sure why they got rid of me, but by doing so, they’ve trapped me further. I hate dishwashing, I’m a talented star and deserve better, but at the moment, dishwashing is the only way to save up money to run away from this place. Now I don’t even have that. Breadstix didn’t want me, they just turned their backs on me without a care in the world. It makes me feel worthless.

 

Being fired is the reason for my constricted throat.

 

When I’m sad, I get thirsty. But my hands are trembling so much that I can’t even keep the water in my glass, so I just curl on in my bed, in the fetal position, my cloudy, watery eyes fixed on the two crumpled up pieces of paper in front of me. Both are rejection letters. One from NYU and the other from Parsons. Apparently I’m a very talented individual but the demand and talent was impeccably high this year. Basically what they are saying is that I’m not good enough and they don’t want me. These aren’t the only rejection letter’s I’ve received but these are my big ones. The ones that keep me from New York. I have about 12 rejection letters, all starting the same. ‘Miss Rachel Berry…’ and then they vary in ways to let me down gently, but all I see is that I’m worthless. 

 

These letters are the reason for my trembling hands.

 

At a time when I’m feeling as down as I am today, I would usually seek comfort in my boyfriend’s arms, because he is one of the few people who understand and appreciates my talent and my being. But coincidentally, he happened to leave me earlier this week. Jesse had come to my house on Monday, just before I was to go to school to tell me our relationship wasn’t working. I called him out on his insanity through my tears and he revealed he loved someone else. Some woman called Harmony. Who just so happens to look and act like some weird clone of mine. In that, I guess I should be flattered, but I’m not. I’m heartbroken. Jesse doesn’t want me. And he was the only one who ever showed me interest and now I have nobody.

 

Jesse is the reason for my runny nose.

 

I can’t go to my two gay dads’ about my pain, because they wouldn’t understand. It’s the type of thing a girl needs her mother for. Unfortunately for me, I have no idea where mine is. I don’t even have any idea who she is and my dads have no pictures of her or a name. All I know is that she gave birth to me and sold me for money when I was still a newborn because she had big dreams. I understand the ambition; I assume I inherited it from her, but at the cost of a baby? Of me? I personally think it’s too much sacrifice but obviously not for my mom. My mother didn’t want me and traded me in for an escape and it makes me feel worthless, hollow and empty.

 

My mother is the reason for my tears.

 

I have no friends at my school that can help put me back together. It’s pretty ridiculous actually, I’m 18 and haven’t a single person that I can call my friend. But that doesn’t necessarily make me feel too sad because the people around here are shallow minded and lack drive. I have no reason to still be in this stupid place but have no way of escaping. But I do have an outlet.

 

When I feel sad, which is embarrassingly often, I turn on my webcam, stare straight into the lens and sing my heart out. I’m an amazing singer, I have many _Youtube_ viewers that think so, unfortunately none of those come from Lima, Ohio or have the power to save me. But still, it’s my passion and I’ll keep doing it until I finally get recognized. I refuse to let Lima diminish my flame, I refuse to drown and get washed away. Everybody’s dies but not everybody lives. On your tomb stone you have the date you were born and the date you die and the only thing that separates the two is a little line. Some people, most people in Lima actually, might be happy with that, but I’m not. I want to make something of my life, leave a legacy, and be remembered. But how is it possible to be remembered when I die if I’m not even remembered while I’m alive?

 

My phone buzzes and interrupts my pity party. I know who it is before I even check. Only four people have my number; my dads who are downstairs, my former employer who probably deleted my number and Jesse. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t care what he has to say. Even if it’s to beg for my forgiveness which I doubt it is, I refuse to hear him out. In fact, I’m completely fed up of my cell phone. It only ever rings when delivering bad news and I’m sick of it.

 

I jump off of my bed, almost tripping over my Dalmatian onesie feet and grabbed my phone. I glance at the screen for a millisecond and it confirms it’s Jesse the Betrayer. Running on complete negative emotion, I furiously wipe my tears off my face and stomp to my bedroom window. Opening it, and breaking a nail in the process, I literally scream in the open air and hurl my phone as hard as I can out of my life, just like the world had done with me. Chucked away the worthless.

 

If I was less distressed, I would have apologized to the homeless teenager who nearly got hit by my device, but I can’t so I ignore him, scream again and slam my window shut. My father’s must have heard me because they bring me a glass of water, but don’t ask what’s wrong. They never do and I’m not sure why. But it reminds me that I, Rachel Berry, am alone.

 

I dream of escaping this hell.

 

 

 

** Kurt Hummel: **

 

Marred. Blemished. Flawed. Stained. Disfigured. Marked. Tarnished. Tainted. Scratched. Spoiled. Burned. Sliced. Destroyed.

 

Those are the adjectives used to describe my skin from the effects of hatred.

 

I’m currently sporting a black eye concealed by makeup; Dave Karofsky gave me this because I refused to bow before him. I’m pretty sure my baby finger on my left hand is broken, this is from Azimio shoving me into a locker and me trying to protect my face. My back is bruised because the jocks on the football team caught me near the locker room and assumed I perved on them and tried throwing me into the dumpster. Maybe the bruise is my own fault because if I hadn’t of struggled so much, the throw would have been clean, as it was, I landed on the metal frame.

 

So I’m marked by all these different boys in completely different ways, but all for the same reason. I am gay.

 

I haven’t attacked them, threatened their mothers or kicked their dogs. All I do is find men, definitely not those specific ones, attractive. Apparently this is enough for them to treat me like some sub human. Their slurs and fists have broken my skin but never broke my spirit, until recently.

 

Nothing specific happened, I didn’t wake up one day and become weak, but I finally broke. Actually that’s not entirely true, I still remember the conversation that changed everything perfectly. My strong façade, the hold your head high attitude, it all crumbled without me even noticing and before I knew it, I was on my tormentors side. We had a mutual hatred.

 

That hatred is me.

 

Accessorizing my bruises and broken bones are scratches to my neck, slices to my arms and burns to my thighs. These are the effects of a different hatred. These are the effects of self-hatred.

 

I wasn’t always like this, I used to love being me. Gay, flawless and fabulous. Screw the haters, I’m better than them anyway. Only I wasn’t. Because if I was, someone, just one single person, anybody, would have noticed that too. Only nobody did and it made me question myself. That, along with the daily punches, kicks and slushie facials anyway. I’m just tired of fighting now and then I get angry at myself for giving up and punish myself. I slice my arms with scissors because I’m unlovable. I burn my thighs with straightening irons because I’m different. I claw at my neck because I’m lonely. I hate myself because I am gay.

 

What I can control though, is how I look. Why should bullying disfigure me when I can do it better than them? And that’s why I’m in my en suit bathroom, bandaging up fresh wounds on my arms to hide from my family. They don’t need to be exposed to the self hate.

 

I make my way upstairs, passed my stepbrother, Finn, who is deep in conversation with someone on the phone, and walk into the kitchen to help my step mom with dinner. Carole married my father a few years ago and after my mom died when I was eight, I doubted I could ever love a woman again. Carole proved me wrong. She also makes my dad incredibly happy which is a bonus. Her son, Finn is one of the few teenage boys in this town who aren’t homophobic. Well, not anymore. It took him a while, but he’s all good now and I consider him my full brother, and he does with me as well. My father is sitting in his usual seat in the lounge, screaming at the TV, because some man didn’t catch the flying ball or whatever. Finn usually joins in with the tirade of noise, but today he seems too focused on his conversation. His frown and constipated look means his worried and confused.

 

“Kurt, can you pass me the pasta please, sweetie?” Carole asks, pointing towards to massive saucepan as if I need help finding it.

 

I quickly run to the fridge and pretend to look busy. “Sorry Carole, my hands are full here.” I answer in a fake strained voice, hoping she will buy my lie.

 

“Don’t worry honey, I’ve got it.”

 

This happens often and I’m able to deflect and avoid pretty well. I’m occasionally asked to move and shift heavy items or objects but due to the slashes up my arms and the bruises on my shoulders, I’m unable to without giving away my injuries. My family don’t know I get bullied. Well, Finn knows a little since we go to school together, but I’ve begged him to keep quiet. Finn knows my trick to avoid picking up stuff so he gives me a sad look as he gets off the phone. He has no idea that the wounds on my arms that restrict me the most are self inflict. He doesn’t even know they exist, no one does. I wear several layers of clothing at any one time to prevent anyone seeing.

 

“Noah got arrested again.” Finn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as Carole sighs sadly and my father groans. I don’t know what noise or action I’m supposed to make to this news so remain looking into the refrigerator staring at cheese.

 

Noah Puckerman is Finn’s best friend. I don’t know how I feel about him. On one hand, he’s a criminal and has ruined many lives through his crimes but on the other hand, he’s not homophobic and he’s never done anything personally to me. Well not that he knows of anyway. The truth is, he caused many of my self inflicted scars.

 

“I’ll take the garbage out.” I offer stupidly, trying to find an excuse to escape having to react. I’m thankful that some player on TV did something my father approves of, because his cheers block out the crashing sound when I drop the black bag on the floor due to the sharp pain in my arm when I try pick it up.

 

Happy my family are preoccupied with criminals, food and football, I drag the bag to the front door and out of the house and down the path. When I reach the silver trash can, I lift the lid and breathe deeply before lifting the heavy garbage bag and dumping it inside. I regret it instantly. I feel my healing cuts rip open and the burning sensation is almost cruel. I hiss in pain and lifted my cardigan sleeve and my shirt sleeve and wince at my bandage which is soaking up the blood, leaving giant red streaks in its usual clean, white place. I know I need to change them immediately, before dinner. I fold down my sleeves and straighten myself up when I see the homeless boy who lurks around. I stick up my nose to him, feeling vulnerable about how much he’s seen and sauntered back into my home, where I will go down into my bathroom, take off my bandage and pull open my new wounds further for my stupidity.

 

I dream of escaping this hell.

 

 

 

** **

** Sam Evans:  **

 

I don’t hate my life. I strongly dislike that word anyway. It sounds so spiteful on the tongue yet people throw it around so carelessly that it’s lost its impact and power. Neither do I love my life. That’s a word I really like. It’s once again thrown around carelessly and lost its beauty. I’m not indifference about my life because that would mean I don’t care, but I do. I guess the word I would use is ‘ _settled_ _’_ _._ I’ve settled for the hand that God had provided me and it’s up to me to play it as best I can.

 

I used to like my life a lot, up until last year. I had a loving mom and a hard working dad. My younger siblings, a set of twins named Stevie and Stacy idolised me and there was even a cat that we owned who enjoyed leaving us presents on the welcome mat several times a month. I guess I still have all these people, my problem is, I just don’t know where any of them are.

 

It was a normal day, sunny I think, but I’m not too sure. Anyway the weather isn’t important. Like I said it was a normal day to begin with. I woke up, had breakfast and waved goodbye to my family as I grabbed my guitar and dashed out the door for school. Completely normal. And then everything went a bit odd and even to this day, I’m not sure why it happened, what caused it, nor can I see any warning signs leading up to it. I came home from school and the welcome mat where our cat usually left presents had disappeared. It didn’t really faze me at the time; the thing needed a good clean anyway. No, what did faze me was when I walked into my house to praise my mom for cleaning the missing item, I realized the mat wasn’t the only thing missing. She was missing too. As was the furniture in the lounge, the cutlery in the drawers, Stevie and Stacy, food from the refrigerator, the actually refrigerator, the beds, the cat, my families clothes, my father and even the light bulbs.

 

My bedroom remained untouched as I wandered the bare house that had been so full of life that morning wondering to myself where everything and everyone was. I sat in my room, perched on my bed and strummed my guitar for hours waiting their return. Hours turned to days, which turned to weeks and still they never showed up. I tried phoning their cells but they were disconnected. I phoned my grandparents, aunts and uncles, but they hadn’t seen them. I was going to phone the cops to file a missing person’s report when I received several letters threatening the sieve the house, but I was scared they would put me in a home. Plus I knew my family weren’t in danger or were kidnapped or anything as all their belongings had gone with them.

 

Except me.

 

I sold practically all my stuff, including my bed for some cash to buy food. I lived without gas and electricity for months before a group of people burst into my house, while I was out busking the streets, and deemed the house unoccupied and by the time I came home the front door was bolted shut and I couldn’t get in. 

 

I don’t know why it took me so long, but it was about a week after sleeping under a bridge that I realized that I was homeless and without a family. I didn’t cry though, I got angry for a while, but never cried. What use were my tears? They wouldn’t bring anything back. So I did the only thing I could think of doing, I adjusted.

 

I go to school when I can, steal clothes off washing lines in the next town over. Relieve myself in bushes, collect water in school and steal food from the cafeteria kitchens. I sleep under the bridge after roaming all of Lima until I’m completely shattered and am able to slumber throughout the whole night peacefully. It isn’t the best life, but it isn’t the worst either. Some people have it far worse than I do, and I see them all as I walk around my town at nightfall.

 

In Lima Heights I see the convict bouncing down the steps out of the police station, he has a smile on his face which people think he wears because authorities don’t phase him. I know that smile is actually a sign of relief that he’s free to go another day to support his sister. His name is Noah Puckerman, but to me he is Puck.

 

In the same area I walk past the most appealing prostitute the town has to offer as she leans against the sign post, revealing as much skin as possible. People usually turn away from her flesh in disgust or drool over it in lust. No-one seems to think that maybe she is at that corner, baring herself, waiting for someone to finally see her for who she really is and love her unconditionally. I see it though. Her name is Santana Lopez, but to me she is Snix.

 

As I walk along the deserted road, I see a car drive slowly pass me. The vehicle is driving so slowly because the driver doesn’t want to reach her destination. I can tell that she would do anything to go back to wherever she had just come from but she can’t. She is trapped in a town where everyone refuses to ever see her for who she is. Trapped in a costume. His name is Wade Adams, but I know her as Unique.

 

On the rich end of town I can hear the deep shouting from a seemingly loving house. It’s only when I look up at the top window of the three storied building that I see what that noise is causing. The form of the body on the other side of the pane of glass is pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the torrent of blood. People will see that beautiful yet broken face tomorrow and not think twice, when I know it’s damaged to save the face of his mother. His name is Blaine Anderson, But I know him as Warbler.

 

Warbler’s window isn’t the only one who tells a story tonight as I walk a couple of blocks over to see a young woman screaming in anguish out of hers and throwing her phone distraught, almost hitting me. I don’t call her out on it though, because unlike the rest of the world who think she is just throwing a dramatic tantrum over nothing, I see the worthlessness in her teary eyes. Her name is Rachel Berry, but I know her as Fanny.

 

The last troubled soul I see tonight before I take refuge under my bridge is the town’s gay. He isn’t the only homosexual in this town, but he’s the only one who gets grief for it. I see how much everyone hates him. I also he how much he hates himself. The fresh blood dripping through his bandaged arm confirms everything for me. His name is Kurt Hummel, but I know him as Porcelain.

 

 

 

In these six tormented youths, I learn to appreciate my own life. I might have lost everything I own, but when I smile, the smile on my face is genuine. For the others, I know it’s not. On the rare occasion where our paths have crossed, they are empathetic of my story as I am of theirs and they probably think I have it worse than them. Maybe we all believe we each have it worse and we use it as an excuse to keep playing the games we are playing. We all want to transform our lives but are too scared to administer the change or even think we are incapable or undeserving of it. So we do nothing but dream of escaping this hell.

 

Oh and my name is Samuel Evans but they all know me as Evan.


	3. School is for Losers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What, did you learn at school today?” That’s what the teachers used to say, but they don’t care, don’t understand, do they? Why, do they always give advice, saying “just be nice, always think twice”, it’s been a long time since they’ve had teenager life.

 

 

 

** Wade Adams: **

 

Two wooden doors stand side by side in the hallways of my school, both of which are untidily tagged with graffiti and are in constant use throughout the day, people generally paying small mind to them. They are simply doors, not mystic items that divulge knowledge or fortune, nor do they lead to a land far from here, yet everyday they stop me in my tracks.

 

“How was the show last night?” my one true friend, Marley Rose asks from beside me and although I realize it is supposed to be a distraction from staring, it only semi works as I watch a cheerleader exit one door and a jock enter the other. “Wade?”

 

“Fabulous, as usual.” I answer automatically in a bored tone before I remember that last night’s show wasn’t as usual as the others. This gives me pause and actually allows me to turn my attention away from the wooden obstacles and onto my dark haired, pale skinned friend, who is leaning against the metal, dented lockers, not unlike myself. She looks genuinely interested in my life outside Lima and for that, I will be forever grateful to have found her. Marley Rose is one of the few people who knows every part of me and hasn’t shielded away. “Actually, Ryder approached me.”

 

It takes a moment to computer with Marley it seems before memory pinpoints who Ryder is. Marley has accompanied me on a few occasions out to Dayton to watch me perform. She says watching me on stage is inspiring and provides her with hope, and sometimes she says it with such conviction, I lose myself for a second and sincerely believe her. She and Ryder have bumped into each other a couple of times during my set and although Marley is tall, slim, beauty and the epitome of virtue, their conversations have only ever consisted of me. It’s completely flattering and extremely dangerous. In hindsight, I should have known Ryder’s approach would only be a matter of time. Marley’s sparkling eyes widen with her smile and she nods eagerly for me to elaborate.

 

“Long story short, I opened up and he shut me down.” I sigh as I lean back against the cold lockers. The cool metal seeps through the thin fabric of my grey polo shirt and the thought of my clothes makes me turn my attention back towards the doors on the other side of the hallway. Marley’s face is no doubt sympathetic, she is a rare gem that holds the power of empathy, but I fear looking at her will crumble my resolve. I’m not heartbroken, I barely know the man, but it has left me feeling dejected. I guess it’s my own fault; the boys in this world go for the Marley’s of the world, not me. I sometimes feel jealous of my best friend and her image, how oblivious she is to how easy she has it, and I hate myself for feeling that way. I find myself looking at my one true friend the majority of time with either envy blazing in my eyes or guilt flooding them. I feel I’m a horrible friend to her for feeling those emotions, but I can’t cut her loose. She doesn’t deserve that, for she has done nothing wrong. Plus, she is the only friend I have in Lima.

 

“You really like this guy, don’t you?” Marley asks in a voice so heartbroken that I can’t help but flicker my dark eyes towards her direction. She has her cell in her hand and she is tapping away at it furiously with a look of deep concentration on her face. The more I watch, the less it looks like concentration though, and instead, more determination. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a slender teenage boy get shoulder checked by a jock as they pass each other in the doorway of one of the doors. It grabs my attention for a moment, because the slender teen has a face as he walks through the door I know all too well; the face of resignation. It gives me pause long enough to distract me from Marley, which is why I startle so much when she begins to talk again. “Lynn. His name is Ryder Lynn and he is 16 like us. He likes sports, music, superheroes and plays several instruments.” She screws her face up slightly, squinting her eyes as she looks down at her thumbs controlling her cell screen. “I can’t find anything that tells us what he is attracted to, though.” 

 

“How did you-” I begin, but Marley just smiles widely at me and waves her phone in front of my face. It’s definitely Ryder on the image, all chestnut hair and dark friendly eyes staring right into the lens of the camera. My stomach gets assaulted by butterflies and I don’t particularly find the feeling welcoming. Attraction to the unobtainable is a dangerous game that never ends well, I know this from experience.

 

“I checked out the Dayton Club Facebook page, scrolled through the people who had checked in recently and his name popped up.” Marley says triumphantly and I have to give it to her, she really does go beyond the call of duty as a friend sometimes. “You should add him as a friend.” I begin to object at such a ludicrous idea because Ryder has made his feelings blatantly obvious, but it seems Marley isn’t done. “What’s the worst that can happen? But first things first, go to the bathroom Wade, break is nearly over.”

 

My stomach tightens and all thought of Ryder fade from my mind, because Marley is right, I have to tackle this obstacle first before I do anything else. I look up at the clock on the magnolia wall down the hallway and she is right, break is almost over and the bell will sound any moment. I look back at the wooden doors with sadness in my eyes. A task that requires no thought from everyone else is a challenge to me. I know what door I’m expected to enter, know which one would ultimately cause the least trouble, but it’s not the one I want.

 

Still, I inhale a large breath of air through my noise, kick off from the locker with my well-worn sneakers and walk over to my selected door. Although I don’t wish to think about it, my eye catches the stenciled word _BOYS_ in dusty white paint as I push open the door and enter the lavatory. It smells strongly of musk, lingering Axe and urine in here and I have to make a conscious effect to keep my bottom lip from trembling.

 

I don’t belong here, my brain feels the need to scream at me and it actually provides quite a useful distraction from the heavy set senior who is looking at me funnily. It seems like he shares the same attitude as everyone else in this school. I’m too girly for the boys room but own an appendage not welcome in the girls. The heavy set senior is looking at me with eyes that read he doesn’t want me in here and just as he turns around, sniggering, and leaves, I tell myself he is right.

 

I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I see the only cubicle in the room is locked and what reflects back at me is sadness. I see dark skin, dull eyes, a shaven scalp and an excess amount of body weight. It’s not the weight that I have a problem with, I’m healthy and active regardless of the 60 pounds I have on the average student. It’s the body I have my demons with. Underneath these baggy pants, something nobody but me gets to see is what defines me and demands I use this room. No matter how invisible or obstructed my penis is, everyone knows it’s there; _I_ know it’s there. And the knowledge of it demands I live I life I am unhappy with.

 

I turn from the mirror, sick of seeing myself so vulnerable, bare and ugly, just in time for the cubicle to open. The slender boy, who was shoulder checked on his way in, comes out and we catch each other’s eyes for a brief second. His blue irises are sparkling in comparison to the redness around them and I can tell he has been crying. I’ve seen the boy around school and around the town but don’t know him on a personal level, but something within me makes me smile sadly at him in hopes to convey a message to him. Even I am unsure what message I’m trying to impart. I understand? It gets better? I feel your pain? I’m unsure, but I feel this boy needs it just as much as I do right now. He holds eye contact for just a moment more before going on with his life and leaving the room as I take up refuge in his previous jail cell and do what I expect he was just doing.

 

I cry.

 

 

** Blaine Anderson: **

****

Right punch. Left punch. Right punch. Left punch. Uppercut.

 

Right punch. Left punch. Right punch. Left punch. Uppercut.

 

Right punch. Left punch. Right punch. Left punch. Uppercut.

 

I’m vaguely aware that I am scaring Tina with the ferocity of my punches, or maybe it’s the tears spilling down my focused face that causes her to gently lay a cautious hand on my bare shoulder. It causes all fight I have inside me to quickly ebb away and I cling to the leather covered foam bag when it swings back my way and I weep heavily against its cold and battered material.

 

The icy brown leather of the punching bag is a stark contrast to the heat I’m emitting from my naked torso and it only makes me grip to the apparatus harder as chocked sobs rack my small body. I feel vulnerable, incredibly so, like this. Not just because I’m crying in the locker rooms of my school, half naked with my best friend watching on in concern, but because I’m exposing my weakness. The blows my father delivered to me mar my abdomen, the purpling bruise beneath my right eye creates the illusion of tiredness and hollowness, but what is clear to see than any of that, is my rage. And that is my weakness.  

 

I hate this very present side of me and I try extremely hard to keep this ugly part of me hidden. When I’m consumed with rage, which is frighteningly becoming a frequent occurrence, I tend to find release in my guitar. I would strum for hours until my fingers bleed; hard, angry melodies. But after taking the brutal beating from last night, the thought of my guitar, my father’s gift to me, makes me sick. In times like this, I just need to lash out and hit something, beat it and break it, just like my father so easily does to me. And it works for a while, discharging my anguish onto an inanimate object hung randomly in the far corner of the grey, dusky room. But it’s physically exhausting and it doesn’t bode well with an already tired mind. In many ways, this is worse than any beating my father could give me, making me feel like this. This person, this resentment driven angry monster is ugly and it scares me.

 

And if it scares me, than Tina must be petrified.

 

“I’m sorry.” I breathe weakly into the pelt material and turn my miserable looking face over to my friend. Tina gives a feeble smile as her tiny grip on my shoulder tightens slight in reassurance. I’m aware that through my excursion that my back is slick with sweat and for Tina to keep her hand on me is as much a testament of our friendship as words. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.” I repeat as with unsteady arms, I push my way off the punch bag and roughly wipe me face. It’s excessively wet from tears and sweat and I’m under no delusion that Tina can tell the difference in moisture.

 

“Blaine, it’s fine.” Tina assures and finally takes her hand off of me. I watch to see if she’ll wipe my sweat off onto her black and white go-go dress, but she doesn’t and for some reason, it helps calm me down somewhat. She looks at me earnestly, her soft bangs pulling each time she blinks up at me. She doesn’t look as scared as I thought she would, which gives me peace of mind, but she does look concerned. I feel bad for putting that look on her face. “Help me understand, Blaine. Talk to me.” She says softly, not unlike the way a mother would talk to her saddened child. “Is it your father?” her eyes flicker over my marked torso.

 

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I mumbled out, exhaustion replacing adrenaline at an alarming rate. Tina must tell I’m drained because she takes my hand in hers and slowly maneuvers us over to the nearby benches. It feels good to sit but my body starts to ache from yesterday’s battery and the torment I’ve just put it through. “My dad didn’t hurt me, I got these from a sparring buddy gone rogue over the weekend.” I lie effortlessly. Tina knows my father is a spiteful horrible man, she has heard his vile tongue herself, but I’m trying to shield her away from the physical aspects of things, even though I’m not sure why I do so. I know she has suspected things get violent at home, but for some reason, I feel that admitting so would impart badly on my dad’s reputation. I am very fond of Tina, but she has a hard time keeping things secret and I fear that if I told her the truth, my dad would somehow lose his job at the law firm. And if the recession has turned him into the violent beast he is now, than I shudder to think what unemployment would do to him; to me. “He just keeps going on about this marriage nonsense.”

 

Tina goes quiet, as I expected she would. I hate bringing this up with her because it puts us in awkward territory, but it is the only way I can explain away my rage. We have only spoken about it a handful of times before and every conversation, both parties seem to leave feeling emptier than when it started.

 

I’ve suspected for a while that Tina’s feelings for me go beyond that of a platonic friendship, but I try to play oblivious as much as possible for her sake, as well as mine. She knows I’m gay and says she accepts that, but I feel it sometimes, the way she watches me from afar, the look of longing ever present in her eye. This is why I hate bringing up the topic of discussion; it cruelly gives my friend hope.

 

“Would it really be that bad?” Tina asks quietly and I notice she has turned her attention back toward the now stationed punching bag. In some ways I’m grateful she has opted out of looking directly at me, because it makes things so much harder otherwise. “I know you’re gay, Blaine and I would never try to change who you are.” She sighs heavily and looks down at her lap, where her thumbs seem to be dancing around each other. She’s nervous and it makes me feel guilty. “But we could always be in a sexless marriage. I’d be OK with that, you know.”

 

“Tina.” I say with as much passion as my tired soul will allow and it grabs her attention as she turns watery eyes onto me. “I wouldn’t be OK with that.” The skin around Tina’s chin tightens as if she is about to full on sob, so I turn my whole person towards her and grab her hands to stop her dancing thumbs from twiddling. “You are my best friend in the world. I smile at your happiness.” I smile as brightly as I can to her and she sniffles in response. “I want to cry with you as we graduate, I want to be front row at your first film screening, I want to be the weeping best man at your wedding and be _that_ gay uncle to your children. I want all of those things for you Tina, but you can’t have them if you’re with me.” She stares at me now, deep into my soul and an uneasy feeling sits in my stomach and makes my shoulders tense. I’m unsure what she is thinking because I’ve never let her down like this before. Usually this conversation begins and ends abruptly and rapidly, but I feel this time, I need to let her know why, because if I’m honest with myself, I’m tired of hurting her. “If we were to wed, we would both end up resenting each other because neither of us would be getting what we truly want. We would ruin the friendship we have and when we are old and dying and we look back on the regrets we have in life, the marriage will be the starring feature. And I don’t want to look back on regret and see your face, because you are the only thing getting me through this place right now.”

 

It takes a while before Tina’s reactions and just as I assume she had died on me mid speech, she flings her arms around me, taking me off guard and chuckles wetly into my bare shoulder. I hug her back and the tension in my body goes and I cautiously start to believe that she has finally gotten it. Nothing I have said has been a lie and I hope she uses my words to find peace with that.

 

We stay hugging until the football team come in, all padded out and smelling of body odor, wolf whistling and advising us to get a room. Secretly I’m thankful of their arrival though, because Tina’s body weight was not something my broken body could have endured for much longer.

 

Although, I suspect it’s not just Tina’s departure that has left me feeling lighter.

 

 

 

** Noah Puckerman: **

****

The best thing about being a runner on the football team is running. Or more accurately, as this case may be; running away.

 

Finn is trying to play the role of best friend and it’s becoming increasingly fucking annoying. I knew telling him about my most recent arrest would be a topic to slip into conversation, but Finn seems to be trying to have an entire conversation about it. Whilst on the field.

 

Me and Finn share hardly any of the same classes seeing as I’m at the bottom of the intelligence pile and he seems to be wavering somewhere in the middle. This is the first time I’ve run into him today and the second I saw him in the locker room whilst putting on our pads, I knew he wanted to talk about our feelings like the little girl he has turned into since he mom got remarried. I kept myself busy whilst changing by talking to the other team members and pretending to be engrossed in their lame ass conversations but out here on the field, the ball is my only distraction. And Finn seems unperturbed by it. This sucks because I don’t want to talk.

 

I feel a sudden trashing and shooting pain flood my chest and all the air inside my hard body is whacked out of me. I blink a couple of times and see the blurry image of the bars of my helmet float in front of my face with a blue backdrop and it’s only that familiar visual confirming I’ve been hit by a ninja player. I’d been so focused on escaping Finn that I failed to see Karofsky fly for me. As I lay on my back on the muddy grass, trying to find my bearings, my attacker looms over me with furrowed brows.

 

“You alright, Puckerman?” Dave Karofsky asks in worry, but the mischievous glimmer in his eyes makes me believe he is less than sincere. I’ve never liked Dave very much, he always seems to be angry at the world and yet expecting favors from it. Dude’s like that piss me off. I give him a thumbs up once I remember how to use my limbs and he scoffs before bouncing away with a roar of triumph for catching the fastest man on the team.

 

I do an awkward roll from my back to my front because although the padding around my red uniform helps protect my body from breaking, it doesn’t do particularly well for maneuvering. I feel a crushing sensation around me rib cage that almost takes the wind out of me again and I grimace as I right myself because I know they are gonna ache like a bitch for a long time. It’s all part of the beautiful game though and it’s pretty much the only thing I’m decent at and I have decided long ago that I can deal with the occasional aches and pains if it proves to the world that I serve purpose.

 

“Dude.” I grimace once again as Finn’s voice reaches my ears from a distance I know I can’t avoid. I pull off my now muddied red helmet just as Coach Beiste blows her whistle to signal end of practice and I turn towards my best friend turned stalker and give him the most reassuring shit eating grin I can muster. He falls for it, obviously, as his worried little face mimics mine and he wraps one arm around me tightly yet briefly. I ignore the pain around my chest as I mentally prepare for the headache Finn will no doubt give me. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all practice.” Finn says in an exasperated tone that comes off a little too dramatic for my taste but I give him a confused look as if to say I had no idea. “You didn’t say too much on the phone last night.”

 

“There’s not much to tell.” I reply with a shrug that’s barely visible under the padding as we slowly approach our Coach at a much more leisurely pace than my teammates. If this conversation is really going to happen, I’d rather it not be in front of the whole team.

 

Finn doesn’t know everything, but he knows more than most. He came over to my house about a year ago and I was out doing god knows what when my ma answered the door to him. Usually when Finn came over, I used to answer the door and practically throw him up to my room telling him my ma was asleep and didn’t want to be disturbed. However on that day, Finn got a front row seat to Heroin addict Norah Puckerman, equipped in hand with a brown stained sheet of tin foil and a pencil thin tube of the same material hanging from her mouth. Finn in all his naivety told his own mother what he saw and the rest is history. Now Carole bans her son from coming over to mine but has made it perfectly clear I will always be welcome in her new marital home, no matter how many times I lie and say my ma is now clean.

 

“Listen, if its money you need I can ask Burt if he has a job going at the garage.” Finn say casually but his eyes give him away. He hates bring up money around me because he knows I don’t have a lot of it. I screw up my face and shake my head at him again, just like the last time he offered me a job at the garage. The first time he asked, I had laughed and pointed towards my shit show jeep, telling him that the contraption is proof of how little I care about cars and a job involving them would bore me to death. That was only half the truth, although fixing cars really doesn’t give me a hard-on, I deny to job opportunity because that would mean more time out of the house; away from Sarah. “I just don’t want you going to Juvie, Dude.”

 

“Relax, Princess.” I scoff at Finn because he is definitely being dramatic now. Louis would never let his cousin go down and besides, the state doesn’t lock up every petty thief they find. I have standards and rules and moral codes and shit. I never steal from the elder on the streets –it’s hard to judge someone’s age when you break into their vacant home-, I would never physically hurt someone to take they shit, I’m not a thug and I would never steal from women in the street –April Rhodes doesn’t count, because I’m pretty convinced that broad is a murderer. I go to tell Finn some fabricated story about how I was innocent, just in the wrong place at the wrong time but when I look towards him, I see him gazing dreamily into the distance.

 

Finn’s been making love heart eyes towards a girl that doesn’t even know he exists for the past year now and he is like a damn love sick puppy whenever he sees her. She never looks his way though, in fact she never looks anyone’s way. She walks through the school kinda like a zombie, with her head down and her long brunet hair covering her face. It’s kinda weird and kinda creepy how she does it, but the majority of the time I barely notice her. Finn however, is obsessed with her ever since seeing her singing videos online. I’ve seen a video or two and yeah she is talented, but in real life she throws out this weird energy where no-one wants to be near her and she always looks at the floor. If she were to ever look up, she would see Finn, but judging from the dopey gormless look he is sporting now, that probably wouldn’t be a selling point.

 

“Listen up fellas.” Coach Beiste says in a booming voice, full of grit that sounds like it should never come from a chicks throat, no matter how burly the broad. “Next weekend, Cooter Menken’s will be in Dayton running his annual Football bootcamp, hoping to find new recruits for his scholarship programme.” Even Finn snaps out of his weirdo loner induced coma to look over at Beiste with that hopefully look in his eyes the rest of the team seem to be displaying, myself included. This is as big of an opportunity I’ll get to get out of Lima. Sarah dancing across my mind briefly at the thought of leaving her for the weekend with our ma, but I file it away to think about later as I hang onto every word our Coach is saying. “There are members of this team that I think would fit his requirements perfectly.” Her eyes linger on her star runner and quarter back a few seconds longer. Me and Finn grin at each other respectively. “All you need is a permission slip from a parent or guardian and a $50 contribution which covers your lodgings, travel, food and the entrance fee.”

 

I think Coach keeps talking but it all turns into white noise after that. $50? I don’t have that kind of money; I have no money at all. I refuse the urge within me to roar in anguish, fall to the floor and beat the ground for how fucking unjust my life is. I just stand there in a numb sort of way whilst the other players cheer and celebrate. Finn pats me hard on the back, which aggravates my persistent aches but not even that snaps me back to reality. I need this scholarship. I need to leave Lima. I need that $50.

 

 

 

** Santana Lopez: **

 

The food in the canteen today seems particularly awful. The chicken fillet seems undercooked, the fries are cremated and I’m pretty sure there is a pubic hair in my salad. I’m not an idiot. I push my atrocious food to one side and replace its space with my handbag. Brittany and Quinn seem to have forgone their food too, letting it grow stale as they rabbit on about boys and rating their hotness. I roll my eyes and begin rummaging through my bag. I don’t know if it’s a thing for girls to do, to empty out their bags regularly to maintain order, but that is not how I roll. Upon looking for my eyebrow pencil and mirror, I happen by a receipt from Breadstix dated about three months ago. I mentally chastise myself for being a sloppy, unorganized bitch and vow to myself that I would clean my bag out tonight.

 

“Vampire with the big lips?” Brittany asks Quinn pointing somewhere into the distance. I peak over my shoulder into that direction for a second before turning back and re-penciling in my eye brows. I can still see the blonde boy they are rating in the reflection of my compact mirror. They have rated this boy’s hotness several times before, like all the boys in this school, and once again, I fail to see the appeal. He isn’t a vampire as Brittany suggests, she seems to have just made that assumption after seeing him stalk through the town at night sometimes. He does have that trouty mouth thing going on for him though. Poor kid is homeless is what he is. I’ve spoken to him before, on the bench, in the past and the delightful kid just seems to be down on his luck. He never shows it though, always smiling and chatting away to people happily. I’m slightly envious of that smile to be honest, not that I would ever tell him that. In fact, I’ve never spoken to him off the bench before.

 

“Noah Puckerman?” Quinn asks after rating the homeless kid a solid eight. Brittany goes into a monologue about her experience with Noah in the bedroom and I start to feel bile gather in my throat. I do every time Brittany talks about her intimate relationship with Noah, which is a frequent thing. Those two together just do not bode well with me for some reason, and I can’t figure out why. I’ve slept with Noah a handful of times myself, but I don’t think it’s a jealousy issue that makes me uncomfortable to hear Brittany’s tale. I’m pretty sure Noah is gay or at the very least bisexual because he asks me to put my fingers in places no other man has suggested. And alas, there have been numerous men. That thought also makes my skin crawl so I push it to the back of my mind and concentrate on reapplying my make up.

 

My stomach rumbles after a moment and I close my mirror and look over at my untouched soiled food and frown. I really am quite hungry seeing as the last time I ate was yesterday lunchtime and the contents of that ended up in the toilet bowl. I always throw up after turning a trick. Most of the time it comes naturally, like my body is trying to protect me and cleans me from the inside out, sometimes I force myself. It’s become sort of a tradition and happens so often that my mama –during a brief moment of clarity from her breakdown- once asked me if I was suffering from bulimia. I remember thinking to myself that I wish it was that simple. Does that make me a sick bitch, for wishing a disorder upon myself rather than continue to search for companionship; for love?

 

I rummage through my beige and black handbag once more and find a rolled up pile of cash, secured with a rubber band and a short-lived smile tugs on my glossed lips at the thought of ordering pizza with it when I get home, until I remember where the money came from.

 

The nameless trick from last night. I shudder violently and drop the money back into my bag. Usually I store the money when I get home under my bed, hardly touching it and saving it for my escape from the Heights, but it must of slipped my mind last night. I definitely need to empty out my bag tonight.

 

“You Ok, Tana?” Brittany asks in concern and I realize she must have spotted my shudder, or perhaps my face holds my self-disgust as my closest friend searches it hoping to find answers I will never reveal. “What happened to your hand?” she asks and oh so very gently strokes her delicate fingers across my battered knuckles. Once again, like all the times we touch, I retreat my skin from hers as the tingling burning sensation takes over. Brittany looks at me with sad eyes and extracts her own hand.

 

For the last few years this freak occurrence has been happening and ever since it started, I’ve made a conscious effort not to touch my best friend, which is easier said than done. I told Brittany a long time ago about the feeling of electric she exudes and she retold me a story of her birth in a barn during a lightning storm. I’m unaware how much of that tale holds truth nor if it has any connection, but she has promised me to keep the touching to a minimum. Which is sad, for both of us, because Brittany is an extremely affectionate person and it’s super grating to see her hugging Quinn without a care in the world and then tensing up myself when she makes a move towards me. Maybe my Uncle Carlos left me with a fear of affection. I think that’s what Brittany thinks too and she thinks I’ve made up this whole electric feeling as an excuse not to touch people. Which isn’t half wrong, to be honest. I was a lot more tactile before my father’s arrest.

 

“Sports injury.” I put my injured knuckle down to and Brittany, bless her simple mind, eats it right up. Quinn, however, has that judging look marring her pretty little face. Me, Brittany and Quinn are all on the cheerleading squad and our Coach has often referred to us as ‘The Unholy Trinity’ the three beings that represent the bad stereotyping in the Cheer World. Brittany is the idiot with way more beauty than brains, I’m a slut who has sleep with the entire football team. (the sad truth is, I’m well on my way to proving that stereotype correct) and Quinn is the judgy little bitch head cheerleader with is eerily accurate. I think Quinn plays the role though, like it’s a character, because there are times, when we are alone that she becomes sort of human. It’s those rare times that restore my patience in her. Besides, we all have flaws; I’d be a fucking hypocrite to judge someone on their outermost layer. The layer they present to the world.

 

“I suggest a sleepover.” Quinn says, her eyes still narrow in judgement and I honestly have no idea where she is going with this. Brittany cheers though, so I smile and nod my head. “Girls night, it’s been forever don’t you think?” She’s right of course; it has been a long time ago since we all caught up outside of school. Life just gets complicated sometimes. “We can’t have it at mine though because my parents are working from home at the moment.” It’s a big fat lie and a transparent one at that. Ever since my father went to prison for murdering the uncle who molested me, I’ve seen the way Quinn’s parents look at me. One part pity, three parts disgust. I’ve not been in Quinn’s home since because they are constantly ‘working’ even though it’s no secret that her father flies out on business trips every month and her mother is a kept woman.

 

I don’t bring it up though because I don’t want my suspicions confirmed and plus, I lie about why we can’t go to mine either. I say my room is being redecorated and is not fit for the living at the moment when in truth, my mama doesn’t do well with people. She sits in her armchair watching nature programs and documentaries on the paranormal for 18 hours a day, most of the time sleeping in it overnight. She barely speaks, nor eats or even washes and although I can sympathize and understand how her breakdown happened, I’m sort of embarrassed by her now. She is literally a shell of the Maribel Lopez who raised me.

 

“My house is cool.” Brittany shrugs casually as she starts picking away at her stone cold school food. Quinn and I smile falsely at each other as I rack my brains for the perfect excuse as to why I have damaged knuckles. Busting up a girl’s face for being a bitch probably wouldn’t sit well for right wing conservative Quinn Fabray.

 

 

 

 

** Rachel Berry: **

 

OK, so maybe throwing my cell phone out of my window was a bit dramatic and highly detrimental to my day to day life.

 

In my haste, I had forgotten that although no-one apart from my dads call me, my cell also doubles up as a music player, and as it turns out, silence is a scary sound. Throughout school and my hometown I often tend to drown out the world with the Broadway classics booming through my headphones. This helps block out what I thought were whispers and jibes, insults and taunts thrown my way. As it turns out, what I learnt from my tuneless day was there were none of those things, all there was was silence. I wasn’t acknowledged by anyone at school, nobody spoke good or bad about me, no-one pardoned themselves when they bumped into me throughout the halls, and somehow it made everything worse. It was like I was invisible.

 

I’m not silly, I know my headphones give off the illusion that I’m unapproachable, and to a degree, I think it’s a conscious decision on my part, but for nobody, not a single student to mutter a single word to me is kind of soul destroying. Especially in the wake of Jesse’s abandonment.

 

Even during gym class, when the team captains were choosing their lineups, nobody uttered my name. Can it be called ‘being picked last’ if you weren’t actually picked at all? The gym teacher had to tell one team I was -by default- in their group, an ensemble that didn’t even acknowledge me when I tried to integrate. I walked out after 10 minutes of silence and the teacher didn’t even summon me back as I walked across the hall and out of the metal double doors. I didn’t cry though, I’m too exhausted to cry anymore.

 

I went to Miss Pillsbury, the school’s guidance counselor, instead and sat with her well into her lunch break trying to grasp onto my rapidly deteriorating future. Miss Pillsbury didn’t mind advising me for so long, at least that is what she said, but her tired and distracted stare made me think otherwise. We spoke about my other options for colleges and didn’t come up with a single thing, nothing acceptable anyway. I realize that if I’m desperate to leave my town, than beggars simply cannot be choosers, but I’ve had my heart set on New York ever since I was 7 months old and discovered my voice. I just feel that if I settle for another state, that I wouldn’t be leaving my problems, just relocating them and only New York, my dream, will fulfil the void in my heart. A void my mother created 18 years ago when she abandoned me. She seems to have set a trend ever since.

 

I can’t remember the last friend I had, I don’t think Jesse counted, because no friend hurts another the way he did to me. Angie, an elderly waitress at Breadstix used to smile at me often when bringing the used dishes to the sink, but the more I think about it, she was the only person in the establishment that I had contact with and someone must have reported back to the manager that I was worth firing. Was it her? The more I think about it, the more I hope it was her, for if not and I had thought badly upon an innocent woman, that guilt would probably consume my very fragile and delicate mind. I decide to blame my dismissal on my own merits, ignoring my mind which screams that I’m a perfectionist, because thinking otherwise makes me feel slightly numb.

 

And I don’t want to feel numb, I refuse to. Everyone and everything has abandoned me so far, I refuse to let my feelings do the same. I need to feel, because no matter the emotion, I can change it into drive and ambition and determination and at the moment, those are the only things shining a sliver of light in a very dark hole I’ve found myself in.

 

Even my fellow benchers, the only people outside of teachers, parents and betraying boyfriends that I speak to, can’t be considered friends. I’ve only ever spoken to two people whilst on the bench and one was a creepy old man talking about his dilemma of being attracted to the teenagers he sells pot to. The other, Evan if memory serves, hardly got to speak because I rambled on and on and then fled the scene distraught, so I doubt he counts either.

 

I can see the bench in the distance, almost swallowed up by the looming darkness of the clear night sky. It’s not particularly late in the evening, but the bitter winds remind me that the night materializes earlier this time of year. The geese that usually inhabit the lake I’m currently walking around have long flown south and once again, thanks to my impulsive behavior, I have nothing but silence for company.

 

I’m not ready to go home just yet, my dads are probably worried sick with my absence and lack of availability to contact me, but that thought lingers far in the back of my mind. They will sooth me and pander to me and that will only make me cry more and like I said, I’m too tired for tears. I don’t need to cry anymore, I need to find direction.

 

As I keep walking, the bench becomes more clear and its vacancy seems inviting to the point that I actually pause in my footing and decided to myself if its company will benefit me tonight. Well, the silence doesn’t hold much companionship so I make my way over towards the piece of furniture.

 

I stand in front of it, staring down at the golden plaque on the worn wood as I wrap my coat around me tighter. _In Memory Of Victor Wilson_. I shiver slightly; the plaque always makes me slightly apprehensive when I see it. Victor Wilson was a great man but his demise was bleak and if history was to be believed, this was his final visiting place before ending his own life. I would never be so selfish as to leave my dads with that grief, but surely Victor must have had same mentality as me at some point in his life. Did the bench convince him of suicide or was it a long list of things leading up to that point. Either way, it gives me the heebie-jeebies when I think of the bad spells of rotten luck I’ve had throughout my life.

 

I sit down nonetheless and it is only when I do I realize how much my legs ache from walking. I must have travel miles since school’s been out, judging by the darkness and had barely realized up until now. My fathers really must be quite distraught by now as I have never been out this late, for never having reason to. My tendency to over react and become melodramatic have nothing on theirs and I know I should run home and heal them of their heart ache, but selfishly my mind whispers ‘But what about your own aching heart?’

 

I must lose myself to the comfort of the wood beneath me and the dancing reflection of the moon upon the ripples of the black lake because I’m soon startled by a soft voice.

 

“May I?”

 

I look up and standing beside me is a pale, tired looking man who couldn’t be far from my age looking down at me with a soft smile as if he were approaching a wounded animal. I suppose my self-pity does give off that sort of illusion. I’m so caught up in the fact that someone my own age has spoken to me today that I don’t realize I’m nodding until after I have done so.

 

“I’m Porcelain.” The sad looking man informs me as he too wraps himself up in a warm looking, white coat before taking residence next to me. He opts to look out at the lake instead of at me in which I’m grateful for. Not only do I not do well in social settings, but I fear I’m not currently a sight for sore eyes. I briefly take in his profile; face covered in skin so pale that the moon light seems to illuminate it somewhat. He has a slightly upturned nose and his features are far softer than that of the average newly adult men. He doesn’t look threatening in the slightest, if anything, he looks about as nervous and vulnerable as I assume I must look.

 

“I’m Fanny.” I tell Porcelain because I decide to trust him enough to give him my bench alias. Porcelain’s lips ticks upwards slightly before turning to look at my face, his pale blue eyes zeroing in on my nose. His smile widens into one more carefree before turning back to look at the lake. I’m assuming by the knowing smile and the look towards my nose that he gets the reference to my alias and it’s that bit of knowledge that has me liking Porcelain.

 

 

 

 

** Kurt Hummel: **

 

I’ve never approached a Searcher before nor have I had much desire to ever do so until now.

 

I call them Searchers, people who come to the bench in need of guidance, direction and answers. Hijackers are the people who join the Searcher on the bench giving both parties the opportunity to Share. The rare times I have Shared, I have been the Searcher, being joined by another after I have taken my seat. I’ve seen other Searchers on the bench before and I’ve had the chance to Hijack but fear has always stopped me. Maybe the Searcher wishes simply to be left to think, maybe they wouldn’t appreciate a Hijacker like me or maybe I feel too uncomfortable Sharing with a Searcher sitting on the lakeside bench.

 

Until today it seems.

 

“Rough day?” I ask Fanny after silence had descended between us. It’s not a heavy silence though, one that has you fidgeting in discomfort, but instead one in which the bench is notorious for; thought provoking silence. I however, don’t particularly wish to think anymore this evening, and instead wish to be distracted from such action by listening to another’s woes. Hence the Hijacking.

 

I know it seems selfish, asking somebody else to air out their grief just so I don’t have to think about mine, but I don’t think Fanny would mind. If anything, she looks as though she craves conversation as much as I need distraction.

 

I turn my head to look at her and her face reads confusion loud and clear. She seems stunned that someone would give her the time of day and create dialogue with her. I’m suddenly hit with a wave of jealousy. I wish people wouldn’t give me the time of day and that the words would stop.

 

“I’m invisible.” Fanny says sadly with a shrug and I get the feeling she isn’t used to people looking directly at her because she seems to shy away and refocus on the lake in front of us. The flood of envy doesn’t cease. What I would do to be invisible, to not have people in my face, staring me down all day. I continue watching her watch the lake and my eyes are drawn back to her nose and I smile again. Her nose seems slightly too large for her face and I can’t help but assume that her alias ‘Fanny’ stems from the character in _Funny Girl_ portrayed by Barbara Streisand who has a similar problem. “Also, I can’t find a suitable college and deadlines are looming.”

 

This is a problem I can’t really relate to for I have not applied for any colleges, despite what I have told my family. They think that I spend my whole entire time locked up in my room researching and applying for colleges when little do they know… my wrist tingling just thinking about it and I pull the sleeves of my coat over my entire hands. Fanny’s eyes flicker to them momentarily before returning to the water. I wanted to go to college, escape this town and better myself, but I’ve been distracted by far more present things as of late. Plus I know no college would want a scarred and disfigured person like me on their enrollment.

 

“What is it you want to study?” I ask, my eyes still on her, silently willing her to drop her guard for a moment and connect with me. I get the sense that her problem with invisibility is, at least to some extent, her own doing. She seems closed off and reserved as if willing herself to blend into the background and to flee focus. I must confess that it seems to work, because I can’t recall seeing her around town before. I wonder what that says about me as a person.

 

“Musical theatre.” She mutters and in a lot of ways it takes me by surprise and yet it seems so obvious. On one hand, Fanny obviously owns at least some knowledge of the Broadway catalogue given her alias, but for someone so inverted to dream of a spotlight is something I’m having trouble comprehending. “But everywhere in New York has rejected me and I don’t want to go anywhere else because New York is the home of- ”

 

“Broadway.” I finish for her and finally she turns to look at me with eyes that aren’t consumed with despair. My heart strings tug for this girl and I realize my overflow of jealousy has drained away and compassion is taking its place. Maybe invisibility isn’t something to be yearned for when you’re battling it like Fanny is. “I’m a bit of a Broadway geek. I own the bootleg of like, dozens of the classics. My ringtone is Defying Gravity from _Wicked_.”

 

Fanny smiles brightly at me if only a little watery and I smile back at her. We have a common ground it seems, a foundation for something to grow and it warms my heart a damn sight better than my coat currently does. It feels good to smile after the day I’ve had.

 

Asides from the usually stick from the football team, hockey team and cheerleaders, I had to deal with the taunts and cascade of red foam balls at dodgeball. I hate dodgeball on the best of days, let alone when the opposing team makes me their prime target and then my own team turns on me for losing them the game. It doesn’t help either that when the teacher tells his students to calm down and they remind him that ‘Kurt loves handling balls though, sir’ that the teacher laughs hysterically. I cried in the loo today because of it, something I thought I had gotten over.

 

 

“During elementary school I used to enter singing contests.” Fanny laughs sadly and it in turns saddens me that she starts losing that dim light in her dark eyes. “My dads were so proud and turned our basement into a trophy room for all of my memorabilia. They even built a stage for me to sing on. They have high dreams for me, the same dreams I have for myself, and I fear I can’t achieve them anymore.” I catch the plural of the word dads but decide not to mention it because it seems insignificant at the moment.

 

“You’re talented then?” I ask Fanny and she shrugs a shoulder and a sudden bolt of recognition hits me. I’ve seen this girl before, I have. Finn had locked himself in his room one evening for hours on end and nobody could figure out why as his games console remained in the living area. I had assumed he was doing what most teenage boys would be doing but when I heard music playing I had entered to find him staring vividly at his computer screen, watching a girl sing her heart out. Fanny is that girl. I remember because not only was she talented but she sang with such passion, emotion, pain and anguish that it had left me shaken for a while. At least I now know where that torment steams from now. “How have NYADA rejected you already when they are still accepting applicants?” I ask her in wonder.

 

“NYADA?” she replies in a confused tone as she looks at me with furrowed brows and I can’t help but mimic her for seemingly having no acknowledgement of what I’m talking about.

 

“New York’s Academy for Dramatic Arts? You’ve never heard of it?” I question her and Fanny shakes her head vehemently as if she is outraged with herself for never hearing of it. It makes me smile for some reason. “Sweet Gaga, you have to apply for it, you would be a shoo in.” I tell her because I truly believe it. Her eyes go wide and many different emotions seem to flicker across her face at once. The one I notice and cling onto though, is hope. “There are still a couple of weeks left until the deadline and I have the application forms sitting on my desk gathering dust. You should totally have them.”

 

“Wait, what?” Fanny frowns again and leans back and it is only then I realize she must have been leaning in with intrigue as I was speaking. “Why do you have them on your desk? Were you going to apply or something?”

 

I hesitate before answering because I hadn’t even noticed that I told Fanny I had the forms so readily available. I know the reason I haven’t applied but can I really tell another person, a relative stranger? I sit back further to look out at the moon reflecting on the water and hear the creaking of wood underneath me that reminds me where I am. Where I’m sitting.

 

“I was going to apply myself, but life got complicated and I forgot and when I did finally remember I thought I wasn’t worthy enough.” I tell Fanny honestly. She remains silent for a while, longer than she has been since opening up and I’m too afraid to look at her for some reason so I stay very still and keep my eyes ahead.

 

“Because that’s what the bullies have told you.” Fanny says quietly and I frown at that because it’s not something I’ve mentioned. “I’ve seen you around Porcelain; I’ve seen what they do to you. I can’t imagine it being very pleasant and I can tell that their words have cut you deep.” My arm twitches involuntary and I don’t turn to see if Fanny notices. The air just became very restricted all of a sudden and I have to fight my desperate urge to flee. Fanny doesn’t deserve that. “I think we should apply Porcelain, I really do.”

 

I turn to look at her and she is smiling encouragingly at me, like she believes with her whole heart that this is the right thing for us both to do. Her belief is almost infectious and I placate her by telling her that I will at least do further research into the academy before making a decision. She smiles and nods and I believe she accepts that. We bond after that, over trivial things like Broadway shows and movie adaptations and it’s only when Finn phones me hours later in a panic for my safety that we part ways with a better understanding of each other and a possible direction out of Lima.

 

 

 

 

 

** Sam Evans: **

 

The constricting pain in my stomach is tolerable tonight. However, I’m not sure how long that will last.

 

The bakery hasn’t thrown any of their produce away this evening so I’m to go hungry tonight. This wouldn’t really be too much of a problem, the bakery often manages to sell all their fresh produce and they rarely discard items in the garbage cans behind the store, but at the moment, that is all I’m relying on as I’ve run out of perishables.

 

Millie Rose is a dinner lady at McKinley High and ever since I ended up on the streets, she has been sneaking me supplies from the kitchen at school. Just little bits here and there, not enough for a person to notice but enough to keep me going. I’m forever grateful to Millie and her generosity because without her handouts, I have no idea what I would do. Millie however, is off sick and has been for the last few days and with the bakery selling all their goods, my stomach is starting to protest from the minimum food I shovel down me at lunch to sustain 24 hours.

 

At least I’m clean, so there are small victories and that in itself makes me content. I love football training days because those days mean I get to shower properly as opposed to wiping myself down in the service station loos. That’s a thing I struggle with a lot, the paranoia that people can tell by my stench that I don’t clean too often and haven’t had the luxury of deodorant for a while now. Nobody has said anything out right to me, but I can smell myself and usually by the fourth day without a proper clean, I can tell that the other students are mindfully keeping their distance from me. That humiliation is worse than any hunger pains my stomach is enduring.

 

But I _am_ very hungry and logic tells me to just retreat under the bridge for the night and sleep until school comes back around. I can’t however because I’m not tried and I have a problem with staying still for too long, it makes me restless. So I continue to burn off the little energy my body has left by once again, roaming the dark, quiet streets of Lima.

 

Most of Lima goes dead past 9pm, everyone’s finished with their days and snuggled up on the couch with their loved ones watching whatever latest show has gripped the nation. The only place that really has any nighttime activity is the Heights and that is never for a good reason. Drug deals, robberies and solicitation happen when the sun goes down and the occasional cop car driving through has no effect on the area. Every night, like clockwork, when the sun goes down, the Heights come to life.

 

I’m too weak too skulk around the nefarious area though as I feel I don’t have the energy to protect myself if needs be, so instead I end up lurking in the shadows of Upper Lima where all the rich residents live. Completely opposite to the Heights, the streets are deserted, cold and silent. Every top of the range car is sitting in their drives, surrounded by up kept gardens and mailboxes that even glimmer by night. 

 

I’m not sure I would want to live in a place like this if I ever had the good fortune to live under a roof, it all seems a bit segregated to me; like there’s an obvious class divide. I mean, obviously if I had the money I would want a nice house but I wouldn’t want it located in a place where those less fortunate would feel uncomfortable; like I do now. I know I don’t belong here; the residents and scenery make that very clear, hence me hiding in the shadows.

 

In a lot of ways, I kind of admire the Heights as opposed to here. Yes, it’s a lot more dangerous and sirens are the neighborhood lullaby, but there is a sense of community there which this place is sorely lacking. People in the Heights talk to each other about their families and situations whilst the conversations in Upper Lima sound like competitions, subtle digs at one another to prove they are richer, more powerful. I’ve heard money can do that to people.

 

Not me though, at least I like to think.

 

My family, once upon a time, was financially comfortable. We couldn’t afford Upper Lima but we could afford better than the Heights, we floated somewhere right in the middle, at working class. Even than I would have friends from both ends of the scale and wouldn’t see them any differently from each other. Even now, as I live on the streets independently, looking at the Heights as a pipe dream, I still feel the same. I don’t envy the rich and I don’t pity the poor and I never have. I just don’t bode well with negative emotions, it sits funny within me. Besides, happiness has no price tag and even as I sit in the shadows with no food in my stomach, I truly believe that I am happier than many people that live in this area. I’m healthy, have good friends and have a dream, staying focused on that makes me rich, I think.

 

After my stomach constricts uncomfortably for the 40th time this evening, I’m just about to call it a night when I see life. Walking pass me and up the long vertical road is a man in a well fitted suit shouting on the phone. I push myself against a wall to hide further from focus although it’s pointless as the business man has already passed me and seems too preoccupied calling whoever is on the other end of the call a variety of colorful words.

 

I watch him storm up the road, his heavy angry breaths and spouts of abuse fading away in the otherwise dead of night, I can still vaguely make out his voice. I thank my lucky stars for not getting caught by him, because I doubt he would find me welcome, skulking in the shadows in an area I clearly don’t belong.

 

As I go to turn away, I see another figure in the far distance walking towards the angry man. I can’t make out what this new man looks like from this distance or where he came from and that strikes me as odd. Surely someone from Upper Lima wouldn’t be out this time of evening and if they were, they would be driving. The angry man is different because he is obviously arriving home from work but the new guy must be leaving his home, wherever that may be. I fear I’m overthinking things. My ADHD sends my brain into overdrive sometimes.

 

I see the newcomer walk pass the angry man with a forceful bump to the shoulders. Again I find this odd too as the sidewalk is clearly big enough for the both of them. Angry man says something which is lost in the distance and Mr. Bump holds his hands up in surrender before continuing on his way. His route looks like he will be passing where I’m standing at any moment so once again, I try to blend into the shadows.

 

It doesn’t work though.

 

Mr. Bang stops short not 10 meters away from me and looks in my direction. With his face illuminated by the lamp above, I finally get a look at the man to realize he isn’t quite a man after all, but Noah Puckerman the delinquent teenager from the Heights. I frown because I don’t understand why he is in the area so casually, dressed in a suit that simultaneously hangs from him and clings to him in different areas.

 

I can’t even get my bearings as Noah looks straight at me with dark eyes and for a moment I’m slightly frightened he is going to attack but then something bizarre happens. Noah drops his gaze and reaches into his pocket to reveal a round object of some sorts. It’s hard to tell with the distance between us. Whatever it is, it can be assembled as Noah picks it apart slightly and re-pockets a small part of it before looking at me again.

 

I’m standing here extremely confused when the suited teenager begins moving again, eyes now off me like I don’t exist and maybe never have while he walks pass me. Before I know it, Noah reaches into his pocket again and throws something towards me feet. I flinch and duck for cover for reasons I don’t know and when nothing hits me, I feel foolish. My only consolation is that when I look up again, Noah is nowhere to be seen.

 

I look at the ground, by my feet and my heart does this funny thing which makes me think I’m about to have a heart attack as I set eyes on the gift bestowed to me. Money. Rolled up cash.

 

I pick it up with haste and I undo the rubber band keeping in together as I count out the dollar bills. $450 rest in my hand and dread and guilt automatically flood me. Noah stole this money from the angry man during the shoulder bump, that’s why Noah was in Upper Lima, to steal money. My empty stomach drops as I look down at the bills and think to myself that I’m holding hard earned cash that doesn’t belong to me. I look up and angry man has also disappeared from view and I have no idea which home he entered so my chances of returning it are slim. I wouldn’t snitch on Noah for taking it, I would say it fell on the floor, hopefully that would wash away my guilt, but I can’t see him anywhere.

 

I look down at the cash again and furrow my blonde brows when I see a business card also included in Noah’s stolen gift. I smile to myself for having information in which to put this wrong right but when I read the card, I pause.

 

_Mr. Anderson_

_Defense Attorney._

 

That angry man was Blaine Anderson’s father, the same man who gets drunk and beats his son. Suddenly I’m filled with an emotion other than guilt, I’m filled with something I can’t explain.

 

I feel bless that for whatever reason, Noah gave me a lifeline in which I can spend the night in a motel, waking up to breakfast and I don’t feel bad that Mr. Anderson is out of pocket. I bury the money into my hoody as I finally take my leave from Upper Lima thanking the heart of a convict and hoping a son doesn’t get punished.


End file.
